A Certain Justice

by P. D. James

  The words shattered Dalgliesh’s mood of almost indolent acquiescence in the seductive peace of the room, her undemanding fecund femininity. He had expected little from his visit but background information, the routine checking of an alibi which was never seriously in doubt. But now his self-indulgent excursion into rural peace was proving illusory. Could any woman really be as naïve as this? He hoped that his voice was equally calm and uncensorious.

  “Mrs. Cummins, didn’t you realize that this is important information? You should have spoken to me earlier.”

  If she saw the words as a rebuke, she made no sign. “But I knew that you were coming. You telephoned. I thought it better to wait until you arrived. It was only a day’s delay. Was that wrong?”

  “Not wrong, perhaps. It was unhelpful.”

  “I’m sorry, but we’re speaking now, aren’t we?”

  At that moment the child slipped from her chair and came over to her mother, showing on her plump outstretched palm what looked like the model of a flat tart filled with small pellets. Perhaps they were meant to be currants or cherries. She raised them to her mother, waiting for her approbation. Mrs. Cummins bent down and whispered in her ear, drawing the child to her. Marie, still without speaking, nodded, went back to her chair and began again her self-absorbed modelling.

  Dalgliesh said: “Can you tell me exactly what happened from the beginning.” It begged the question, what beginning? How far did the story go back? To their marriage? To the divorce? He added, “Why you went to London. What happened.”

  “Venetia telephoned. It was early on Wednesday morning, just before eight. I hadn’t started working. Luke was getting into the truck to drive over to a farm outside Bere Regis to collect some manure he’d been promised for the garden, and was going to do some shopping in Wareham on the way home. I suppose I could have run out and stopped him, but I decided I wouldn’t. I told Venetia that Luke had left, so she gave me the message. It was about Octavia. She was worried about this boy that Octavia had got involved with, someone Venetia had defended. She wanted Luke to intervene.”

  “How did she sound?”

  “More cross than upset. And she was in a hurry. She said she had to leave for the Crown Court. If it had been anyone but Venetia I would have said she was in a panic, but Venetia doesn’t allow herself to panic. But she said it was very urgent. She couldn’t wait until Luke was home. I was to give him a message.”

  Dalgliesh asked: “What did she want your husband to do?”

  “To put a stop to it. She said: ‘He’s her father, let him take some responsibility for a change. Buy Ashe off, take Octavia abroad for a time. I’ll pay.’ ” Mrs. Cummins added, “The boy’s name is Ashe, but I expect you know that.”

  “Yes,” said Dalgliesh, “we know that.”

  “Venetia said, ‘Tell Luke we have to talk about this. In person. I want to see him in my room at Chambers this evening. The gate to Middle Temple Lane is closed, but he can get in through the gate at the end of Devereux Court.’ She gave me very detailed instructions exactly where it is. The passage—Devereux Court—is opposite the Law Courts and there’s a pub called the George at the end. You go up the passage then take a small turn to the left, and then right, and opposite another pub, called the Devereux, there’s a black studded gate with a small door in it. We agreed that Luke would be there at quarter past eight. Venetia said the gate would be locked by then, but that she’d come and let him in. She said, ‘I shan’t keep him waiting and I don’t expect to be kept waiting myself.’”

  Dalgliesh said: “Didn’t it strike you as odd that the appointment was at Chambers, not at her house, and at eight-fifteen, after the gate would be locked?”

  “She wouldn’t want to see Luke at Pelham Place and he wouldn’t want to go there. I expect she didn’t want Octavia to know that she’d called in her father, not until they’d worked out a plan. And I was the one who fixed the time. I didn’t see how I could catch a train before the seventeen-twenty-two which gets in to Waterloo at nineteen-twenty-nine.”

  Dalgliesh said: “So you had already decided that you would go to London, rather than your husband?”

  “I decided that before we stopped talking. Then, when Luke returned, he agreed. I was afraid that Venetia would persuade him into something he didn’t want to do. And what could he do? She had never treated him as a father when Octavia was small, and there was no point in calling for his help now. Octavia wouldn’t have taken any notice, and why should she? And he can’t take Octavia abroad even if she would go. His place is here with his family.”

  Dalgliesh said: “He is her father.”

  The comment was not intended to be censorious. Venetia’s matrimonial affairs were not his concern except in so far as they were relevant to her death. But divorce legally separated husband and wife, not father and child. It was odd that a woman so obviously maternal as Mrs. Cummins should so casually reject Venetia’s claim on her ex-husband’s interest in his daughter’s welfare. Yet she had spoken entirely without apology or apparent regret. She seemed to be saying: This is how things are; there is nothing now to be done about them. This is no longer our concern.

  She said: “We couldn’t both go to London, because of Marie and the studio. Customers expect to find us open when they turn up. I don’t think those difficulties occurred to Venetia when she spoke.”

  “So how did Miss Aldridge react to the news that her ex-husband wouldn’t appear?”

  “I didn’t tell her. I let her think that he would. It seemed the best way. Of course, she might refuse to see me, but I didn’t think that was likely. I’d be there and Luke wouldn’t. She wouldn’t have much choice and I could explain what I felt—what we both felt.”

  “What did you feel, Mrs. Cummins?”

  “That we couldn’t impose ourselves on Octavia or interfere in her life. If she asked us for help we’d try to give it, but it was too late for Venetia to begin treating Luke as a father. Octavia’s eighteen, she’s an adult in law.”

  “So you went to London. It would be helpful if you could tell me exactly what happened.”

  “But nothing happened. As I said, she didn’t come out to the gate. I caught the seventeen-twenty-two from Wareham. Luke drove me to the station with Marie. I knew it might not be convenient to get back that night. Luke couldn’t leave Marie and I didn’t want him to drive with her to Wareham Station long after her bedtime. I didn’t want to spend money on a hotel—London is so expensive—but I have an old school friend who lets me use her flat near Waterloo Station when she isn’t there. She’s often abroad. I hardly ever use it, but when I do I telephone her neighbour to let him know I’ll be arriving. That’s in case he hears me in the flat and thinks Alice has burglars. I have a key so I can let myself in.”

  “Did he see you arriving?”

  “No. But I did see him next morning, just before eight-thirty. I rang his bell to let him know I was leaving and that I’d put my sheets in the washing machine. He has a key too, and he said he’d go in later and put them in the drier. He’s very helpful like that. He’s an elderly bachelor who’s fond of Alice and takes a proprietary interest in her flat when she’s away. I told him, too, that I’d left some milk in the fridge, and I’d also left a small jug I’d made as a present for Alice.”

  So there was confirmation of her presence in the flat on the Thursday morning. That didn’t mean she’d been alone. Her husband could have crept quietly out before eight-thirty. Whether this obliging neighbour would be able to say if he’d heard one or more people in the flat would depend on the thickness of the walls. But, then, there was Marie; she couldn’t be left. If husband and wife had gone together to London someone would have had to look after the child, and it shouldn’t be difficult to discover who. Or had they taken her with them? It would have been hard to conceal the presence of a child in the flat, however quiet. Had Mrs. Cummins stayed with Marie while her husband kept the appointment—kept it and killed? But what about the wig and the blood? He might possi
bly have known where to find the wig, but how could he have known about the blood? But that was to assume that the murderer had also desecrated the body. And what of motive? Dalgliesh had yet to meet Luke Cummins but presumed that the man was sane. Would a sane man have killed to avoid the inconvenient importunities of an ex-wife—ex by eleven years? Or for eight thousand pounds? That too was interesting. In relation to her estate the sum was almost insulting. Had Venetia Aldridge been saying: “You gave me some pleasure. It wasn’t all disaster. I value it at a thousand a year”? A sensitive woman would have made it more or nothing. And what did this bequest say about their relationship?

  The concatenation of theories sped through Dalgliesh’s mind in seconds while Anna Cummins relaxed and, gently rocking in her chair, paused before going on with her story. But the room had lost its innocence and he was seeing her now through different, more critical eyes. The icon of comforting maternity and inward serenity was blurred now by a more insistent image: Venetia Aldridge’s body, the dangling hands vulnerable and still, the bent head with its helmet of drying blood. He could, of course, have asked Marie if she’d been with her parents to London. But he knew that he couldn’t and wouldn’t. The whole idea of a joint murderous enterprise now struck him as bizarre.

  The lilting voice went quietly on: “I took a piece of quiche and a pot of yoghurt with me to eat in the train so that I didn’t have to bother about supper. I went straight to the flat from the station, left my overnight case at the flat and started out at once for the Temple. I wanted to be sure I was on time. I was lucky and picked up a taxi at once at Waterloo Bridge. I asked to be dropped opposite the Law Courts, crossed the road and found the passage, Devereux Court. It was perfectly simple. Oh I forgot. Before I set out from the flat I rang Chambers. I wanted to be sure Venetia was there. She answered the phone and I just said we were on our way and replaced the receiver. But she was there just after half past seven and I knew she was expecting me.”

  He asked the formal, necessary question. “And you are sure of the time?”

  “Of course. I was keeping an eye on my watch the whole time to make sure I wasn’t late. Actually I was early. I didn’t want to make myself conspicuous loitering in the passage, so I killed five minutes walking along the Strand. I was outside the gate at ten past eight. I waited until eight-forty. Venetia never came.”

  Dalgliesh said: “Did you see anyone else come through the gate?”

  “Three or four people, men. I think they were musicians. Anyway, they had instrument cases with them. I don’t think I’d be able to recognize them. Then, at quarter past eight, there was one I might perhaps know again. He was strongly built and had bright-red hair. I remember him particularly because he unlocked the small door in the gate—he had a key—but was only in the Temple for about a minute. Then he came out again and went off down the passage. He was hardly in the Temple before he was out again. It was odd.”

  “And you think you’d recognize him if you saw him again?”

  “I think so. There’s a lamp above the gate. It shone on his bright hair.”

  Dalgliesh said: “I wish I’d known this earlier. You’d been told that Miss Aldridge was dead, probably murdered. Did it really not occur to you that this evidence was important?”

  “I realized you’d need to know it, but then I thought you did know it. Didn’t Octavia tell you? I thought that’s why you’d arranged to see us, to verify her story.”

  “Octavia knew about your visit?” There was no point in pretending this was not news to him, but he kept his voice unsurprised.

  “Yes, she knew. After I’d got back to Alice’s flat I thought it was possible that Venetia hadn’t come to the gate because she’d suddenly been taken ill. It didn’t seem at all likely, but I wasn’t happy about going to bed without alerting someone. Venetia had been so definite about the appointment. I rang Pelham Place. A man answered—a young man, I think—and then Octavia came on the line. I told her what had happened—not why I’d come up to London, but about the missed appointment. I suggested that she should ring to see if her mother was all right—that is, if she wasn’t already at home. Octavia said, ‘I expect she decided that she didn’t want to see you. We none of us want to see you. And don’t try to interfere in my life.’”

  Dalgliesh said: “Which would suggest that she’d guessed what the appointment was about.”

  “It wouldn’t be difficult to guess, would it? Anyway, I felt I’d done what I could and I went to bed. Next morning I left for home. Luke and Marie met me off the train. When we got back here Drysdale Laud telephoned. He’d been trying to reach us to tell us that Venetia was dead.”

  “And you did nothing? You still kept silent about your visit?”

  “What could we do? Octavia knew the facts. We expected that the police would be in touch to confirm her story, and you did get in touch to say you’d be coming to see us. It seemed better to wait until you arrived. I didn’t want to discuss it on the phone.”

  It was at that moment that they heard the approaching truck. Immediately the child ran from her seat and stood in the doorway, giving little jumps and squeaks of anticipatory joy. As soon as the engine stopped she dashed out as if in response to a signal. There was the slam of the truck door, the sound of a masculine voice, and a minute later Luke Cummins appeared, carrying his daughter on his shoulders.

  His wife got up from her chair and stood quietly waiting. As he entered they moved soundlessly together. Gently releasing Marie, Cummins embraced his wife while the child, leaning against him, imprisoned his leg in her arms. For the moment they stood motionless in their private tableau, from which Dalgliesh felt an almost physical sense of exclusion. He studied Luke Cummins, trying to imagine him as Venetia Aldridge’s husband, to see him as part of her world, of her over-driven obsessional life.

  He was very tall, loose-limbed, with sun-bleached fairish hair and a boyish weather-tanned face, finely boned and sensitive but with a suggestion of weakness about the mouth. The thick corduroy trousers and roll-necked Aran sweater gave bulk to a body which looked as if in adolescence it had outgrown its strength. He glanced across at Dalgliesh over his wife’s shoulder and gave a brief smile of acknowledgement before bending again to his family. Dalgliesh thought: He’s mistaken me for a customer. He got up and moved over to the exhibition table, uncertain whether the move was prompted by a sudden whim to play the part, or the wish not to intrude on their privacy. His ears caught Cummins’s softly spoken words.

  “Good news, darling. They want another three cheese platters by Christmas, if you can manage it. Is that possible?”

  “The garden scene with the geraniums and the open window?”

  “One similar, the other two are commissions. The customers want to discuss with you what they’d like. I said you’d ring and make an appointment.”

  His wife’s voice was anxious. “The shop won’t put them on display together, will they? That always makes them look mass-produced.”

  “They understand that. They’ll show only the one and then take orders. But it’s cutting it fine, I don’t want you stressed.”

  “I won’t be.”

  It was only then that Dalgliesh turned round. Anna Cummins said: “Darling, this is Mr. Dalgliesh from the Metropolitan Police. Remember? We did know that he was coming.”

  Cummins came over and held out his hand. He could have been greeting a customer or a casual friend. The handshake was surprisingly firm, a gardener’s hand, strong and hard.

  He said: “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. I expect Anna has told you all we know. It isn’t much. We haven’t heard from my ex-wife for three years except for that telephone call.”

  “Which you weren’t here to take.”

  “That’s right. And Venetia didn’t ring back.”

  And that, thought Dalgliesh, was in itself surprising. If the appointment had been so important, why had Miss Aldridge not confirmed it, spoken to Cummins herself? Surely she could have found a spare minute d
uring the day. But she might later have half-regretted her call. It had sounded more like an impulse—panic even—than a reasoned response to her dilemma with Octavia, even though she wasn’t a woman who panicked easily. She might have thought: I won’t humiliate myself by ringing again. If he comes we’ll talk; if not, nothing is lost.

  Anna Cummins said: “Mr. Dalgliesh suggested earlier that he should take a walk. Why don’t you go together up the field and show him the view, then you could come back for some tea before he leaves.”

  The suggestion, mildly voiced, had something of the force of command. Dalgliesh said that he’d like the walk, but would have to leave without waiting for the tea. Cummins put down his daughter and he and Dalgliesh set off through the garden, past the hen-house where a variety of fowl came squawking towards them, over a stile and into a field which stretched gently uphill. The winter wheat had recently been sown and Dalgliesh marvelled, as he always did, that such delicate shoots could push through so strong a soil. Between a high tangled hedge of brambles, gorse and bushes was a rough path wide enough for the two of them to walk abreast. The blackberries were ripe and from time to time Cummins would stretch out a hand to pick and eat them.

  Dalgliesh said: “Your wife has told me about her visit to London. If the meeting had taken place it could hardly have been pleasant. I was a little surprised you let her go alone.” He didn’t add, “and when she was pregnant.”

  Luke Cummins reached up for a high branch and drew it down towards him. He said: “Anna thought it was best. I think she was afraid Venetia would bully me. It was rather the pattern.” He smiled as if the thought amused him, then added: “We couldn’t both go, because of Marie and the customers. Perhaps it would have been wiser if neither of us had, but Anna thought it would be better to make it plain once and for all that we couldn’t get involved. Octavia is eighteen, an adult in law. She didn’t take any notice of me when she was a child. Why should she now?”